One Dream At A Time
by APlagueOnBothYourHouses
Summary: So Spencer Reid is a product of the School. There's some plot, too. It's a pretty good plot, I think, though I'm admittedly a bit biased on the matter. Rated 'cause swear words *le gasp*. There's some OCs here, so I guess if you have something against OCs . . . . Anyways, please read and review.
1. Chapter 1

**_Um._**

**_Yeah._**

**_Don't worry, there will be more. This was written on a whim, like, an honest-to-cod WHIM. This idea literally just popped into my head today and I sat down to try and write out a few scenes and then THIS happened. 2952 words of a random plot-bunny attack. I've got a total of 6,000-something on my google docs, so never fear, there will be more. The plot is kind of wonky because I literally just sort of sat down and wrote whatever came into my head. _**

**_AAAANNNYYWAAAAAYYYYSSSSS, for those of you who are reading Red Wings, the next chapter won't be out as soon as the last ones have been (admit it, I've spoiled you) because I'm EXTREMELY busy and, you know, school and stuff, AND I'm trying to work out the plot. I'm ALSO re-reading all of JP's books to get the characterization and carp right._**

**_For those readers who have't read Red Wings, I would like to shamelessly self-advertise and suggest you go read it. _**

**_Also, I do realize that some of the stuff in here won't be correct, year-wise and all. Just, like, suspend all disbelief and buckle in for the long haul. ALSO I've only seen a few episodes of Criminal Minds (it's NOT ON NETFLIX UGH) so sorry if I screwed some stuff up. Most of that comes in the next chapter, though, so I guess I'll see you then._**

**_If you bothered to read this far, you get a cookie. Enjoy!_**

Spencer Reid had secrets.

Everyone had secrets. But Spencer wasn't just 'everyone'- his secret(s) were more than the average 'I'm cheating on my wife' or 'I'm dealing drugs' or 'I'm a closet comic book nerd' or the old favourite, 'I'm in the closet about more than just my secret comic book collection'.

In his line of work, Spencer had heard it all, though the most common, by far, in his books, was 'I'm secretly a serial killer'. Seeing as he was employed to fight serial killers, it made sense that he had run across his fair share of them.

But that was besides the point.

Yes, Spencer Reid was hiding something, and it was hard. Daily, he hung around people whose job it was to discern humanity's hidden pasts and vices. His team was first-rate, the best of the best. Honestly, he had no idea how he had made it this far. All he could do was fervently thank the perception filters that had come with the monumental thing he was hiding.

There were reasons for his hiding, too. Very, very good reasons. He knew that when (there was no question about it- they would find out. It was only a question of 'when') they found out, they would be upset, and he couldn't stand the thought, but he also knew that they were reasonable people and they would understand the reasoning behind the secrecy.

The reason he had not divulged key bits of information on his past was to protect them. 'Them' being the team and everyone else he came into contact with on a daily basis. He knew that if he kept his head down, he could (probably) live his life in relative safety. He tried not to think about what would happen when it all went to hell in a tidy handbasket, as things were wont to do around him, but he struggled. It was hard to ignore the ominous feel of Fate's own obsidian sword that hovered over his neck and was held back only by the frail strand of woven lies that was liable to snap at any moment.

Perhaps he was being a tad overdramatic.

But that wasn't the point. The point was, that he had a very bad feeling as he swung his leather satchel over his shoulder that morning. Walking hurriedly to the subways, he stopped at his favourite coffee joint, purchasing his lifeblood and guzzling it down on his way into the crowded train carriage.

He hated the subway. It smelled horrible and it was crowded, two things that were not likely to (what's that word) it to Spencer, seeing as he had spent most of his life in a crowded, smelly place, and he didn't exactly have fond memories of it. But more on that later.

The only reason Spencer took the subway was because he needed to. It was an exercise of control over his phsyche. He had read about exposure therapy, and this was the only way he could think of to help rid himself of his fear of tight spaces that were not lit up by the sun.

The sun was his favourite thing. He had heard whispers of it in his younger years, from the ones lucky enough to have glimpsed it through a window, but he hadn't dared to believe in such a selfless thing. He couldn't begin to imagine a thing that gave light to the world, just because it could. He hadn't known that such goodness had existed in the world, for something to give its time up so freely for the good of others.

He remembered clearly the first time he had felt the warmth of it on his back. Even without his eidetic memory, he would have remembered it. How could he not have?

It had been the happiest day of his life.

_What good was being smart when you didn't know anything you could use?_

_Those were his thoughts as his chocolate eyes stared out from the wire dog crate, attentive and wary, watchful and terrified. He hadn't been pulled out for a while, now, and it was worrisome. He knew what happened to the experiments the whitecoats decided were 'obsolete', and he figured that it was nearing his time. He was the oldest one in the room, at age 19. That was a rough guess, based on his knowledge of the gregorian calendar and his partiality to October 9th. It wasn't like they would have let him know something as trivial as his own freaking birthday, right? That was too much to be expected from a bunch of sadistic scientists._

_The point was, after (roughly) 19 years, he figured he was well on his way to becoming classified as 'obsolete' and he was almost sure that the lack of tests was a sign. He didn't like to think about his probable imminent execution, but there wasn't much else to think about, because he was left in his crate all day. He couldn't talk to his fellow inmates, because there was a strict 'no-talking' policy that was gleefully enforced by the Institute's many vicious guards, known to the experiments as the Erasers._

_A few of them did manage to communicate, however. A girl who had been there for 16 years (approximately) and a 14 year old boy were the only ones stable enough for viable communication. The rest were simply stored there, in the dark room, as they waited to die._

_He had seen more than his fair share of death in his time, but he beared it because he had no other choice. He, the girl, and the boy communicated, and the small act of rebellion was what kept him sane. They managed to convey their respective thoughts and feelings in a language made up of minute hand gestures and facial expressions._

_None of them had names._

_For all his life, he had been known only by his numerical designation, 22564. The girl, 77652, and the boy, 15003, were all experiments. 77652 had been injected with steroids when she was little. They were supposed to make her strong, and they did. But they made her too strong- the whitecoats had gotten the doseage wrong. Her bones were thicker than average, and despite the lack of exercise she managed to get (spending your days in dog crates was not conducive to healthy living) her muscles bulged freakishly. The steroids had messed with her skin pigmentation, too, and she was a permanent grey-blue. Not that he or 15003 minded._

_It would be hypocritical of them both._

_He himself had been the victim of many more tests. They had messed with his head, so he was obscenely smart and remembered everything that had ever happened to him (which was not always a good thing). They had tried to make him strong, the same way they had tried on 77652, but they hadn't succeeded in him, either. This time, the dose was too low. His muscle growth was permanently stunted, but his bones were incrediably thick. Combine a lack of musculature with the fact that he hadn't had a proper meal in his entire life, and he knew that he would look permanently starved for the remainder of his life._

_Not that it was going to last that long, anyways._

_15003 was, by far, the most abnormal of the lot. The scientists had been dabbling in recombinant DNA at the time of his 'birth'. He had been spiced with chameleon DNA. It had only been partially successful, which was unfortunate for 15003. His body was scaly and his pupils were slitted like a lizard's, and he could only change colour under extreme duress. He was very skittish, because the scientists just loved putting him under said extreme duress._

_He noted that 15003 had been taken out earlier, while he had been sleeping, presumably, for testing, but that 77652 was slumbering restlessly in her own crate. He was, yet again, swept up in thoughts of his own imminent demise._

_Death was a fact of life, here. He had honestly been surprised when he had reached his 18th (ish) birthday. He had never expected to make it so far. And perhaps he should stop fretting- if they killed him, it would mean that they would stop hurting him. Death seemed to be the only way to escape. It was not that he was suicidal. He just wanted the pain to stop._

_The crate they had put him in was painfully small, now, and the steroids that had failed to make his muscles grow had made him grow in other ways- he was almost scarily tall for his age._

_He was one of the lucky ones. The scientists had taught him how to read and write, and they had permitted him to pore over their textbooks. Yes, it had been a part of a test on his retention and comprehensive skills, but it was the only good memory he had of this place. He knew what went on in the Operating Rooms and he understood the work they were doing. He knew that they were advancing humankind's understanding of biology. But he did not approve. Yes, the rewards were great, but the risks were too high. He had seen too much horror and death for him to be able to say anything different._

_His favourite book that they had let him read was the one on psychology- the inner workings of the human mind intrigued him like nothing else. He liked learning how people worked and what made them tick. He figured that every single whitecoat in the Institute was a psychopath. Either that, or they truly didn't see their experiments as people. They think of us like lab rats, he thought to himself in disgust._

_He knew that there was a world outside of this dark place, and that the people out there had no idea what went on in the tall building. He had heard the whitecoats talking about their own families and friends, and about how it was so difficult to keep what they did under wraps. They thought that what they were doing was revolutionary and were not happy with the need to keep it all under wraps._

_He couldn't wait for the day that one of them broke and the public found out about what had been going on, right under their noses._

_But he knew that he wouldn't live that long._

_At that thought, two Erasers entered the room, one carting 15003's crate (that, thankfully, contained 15003, who seemed to be alive and conscious, if scared half out of his wits.) and the other carrying a clipboard. The first Eraser plopped 15003 into his normal spot, directly across from him, and the second unclipped something from the clipboard and peered around the room, apparently looking for someone._

_His heart froze when the Eraser's eyes stopped on him. Time seemed to slow down as pure adrenalin was pumped through his system, his raw instincts (that were heightened by whatever had been done to his head) screaming at him to fight or flight. But as he could do neither, he just stayed there, frozen like a statue, as the hulking Eraser lumbered over threateningly. It neared, and soon was standing directly in front of the cage. It rattled the cage, laughing to his partner as it took note of his frozen terror, but instead of taking him out again for more tests (tests-bad-pain-fear-no-hurt-BAD) all it did was take the paper it had unclipped from the board and pinned it up on the side of his crate, next to the papers that proclaimed what they had done to him._

_The Erasers left and 77652 stopped pretending to be asleep. She peered at the paper from her own cage, which was right next to 15003's, and her face changed to one of horror and fear._

_He knew why._

_He could read the black print through the thin copy paper._

**Scheduled for extermination**

_Well, sh*t._

* * *

><p><em>It was a few hours later on the same day. 15003 had woken up, seen the paper, and immediately began tearing up. The bad thing about him being a chameleon was that his tear ducts were extremely oversensitive and he cried over everything. He wasn't a wimp. It was simply a fact of his biology.<em>

_He had gotten used to the idea of his death. It didn't bother him as much as it probably should have. The only thing he regretted was the fact that he didn't have a name._

_As he stared blankly at the same blank wall that he had been staring at blankly at his whole life, he cracked an internal grin. He figured that, since he was dying, he should be allowed to name himself._

_He thought long and hard about it. Not because it would matter- he was dying anyways, and he couldn't tell his friends about it or they would be punished, so in the end he would die the only one to know his own name- but because he figured that he needed something to think about._

_He thought about all of the names he knew. He had heard the whitecoats calling each other by name. there had been Henry, Gerald, and Thomas. Trey, Davis, and Aaron. There had even been a Mattias, though he knew that name was unwieldy at best and it just sounded old-fashioned. Not that he would know much about fashion, but that was besides the point._

_The point being that all of those names were whitecoat names, and he wouldn't be caught dead (he laughed at the thought. Oh, irony.) with a name with such negative connotations. No._

_After some thought, he remembered the names of the authors of the textbooks he had read. The author of the psychology book had been named Thomas Reid. Since Thomas was out, he picked Reid. But, as a name, it sounded to him more like a last name, so he remembered the name of the man who had written the book on mathematics. Dr. Spencer Washington._

_Put them together and you get Spencer Reid._

_He liked the sound of that._

* * *

><p><em>It was a few more hours later and he was trying his best to get some real sleep, and failing pretty miserably. He tossed and turned. While he was used to the hard floor of his crate, seeing as he knew no differently, that didn't mean he had to like it.<em>

_He had just reached that stage in the sleeping journey where he was asleep but still quasi-aware of his surroundings when he detected a disturbance. Jolting awake, he peered around the room, noting that the others had heard it, too._

_It was an unfamiliar sound, one that he had not yet had the pleasure of hearing. It was a sort of faint rustling that was overshadowed by loud, uncivilized conversation. The tone of voice was not something that the scientists would use, and they voices were too high to be from Erasers._

_Something was happening._

_The noises came to a peak when the door to the room where they were kept was opened._

_A tall blonde girl with wings - wings, that was where the rustling noise had come from, it was the feathers!- strode into the room, pausing only to stare sadly at them all, huddled in their crates. Spencer (that was going to take some getting used to, he had spent nineteen years going by 22564) noted that she wasn't surprised, which meant that she was probably an escapee herself. But she was in too good of health to have recently gotten out, so that meant she had been out for a while._

_She took the keys to the crates from where they hung tantalizingly on the wall and unlocked the cages of everyone in the room, including himself. He joined the rest of them in tumbling out of his crate and stretching such as he hadn't done in months. He smiled at her, but didn't speak. He knew his voice would be rough and painful from lack of use._

_"Alright, everyone, you're going to follow me, I know the way out!" she barked, obviously used to giving orders. We fell in behind her, following her out into the hallways, where we were joined by more bird-kids and experiments from the other storerooms. They followed her down to the bottom of the building, and up some dark stairways. They doubled their pace when they heard the padding of Erasers behind them._

_They emerged into the sewer area, and the girl, who had introduced herself as Max and the others with her as the Flock, pointed out the way to go that would take him and the others out. He nodded at her, giving her a happy grin, and made a break for it, hoping beyond hope that the rest would follow him._

_They did._

_The gaggle of mutants burst out of the sewer and into the streets of New York. Said streets didn't even blink-they had seen much weirder. But the experiments, they did blink. In wonder. None of them had ever properly seen the sun, felt its warmth on their backs, or inhaled the New York air. Yes, it was disgusting and full of pollutants, but they all just stood together and breathed it in, together._

_The mutants began breaking away, running as fast as they could away from the place that had held them captive for so long._

_Before they could join in the running, Spencer grabbed onto 77652 and 15003, asking them in their silent language if they could stay together._

_Gaining their assent, he grinned and they walked away calmly, together, and free._

**_Seriously, plz review. You have no idea how happy they make me._**

**_Or maybe you do._**

**_But that's neither here nor there. SONG OF THE CHAPTER IS Time of Dying by Three Days Grace, because it's what I'm listening to as I write this._**

**_Oh, wait, now it's Shining Star by the Manhattans. _**

**Okay, so there are two songs of the update.**

**ANYWAYS, REVIEW PLEASE (concrit is always, ALWAYS welcome)**

**~Pseu**


	2. Chapter 2

_A month after their escape found the three no longer in New York. They had stayed long enough to get their bearings in the new world, learning about stuff like taxes and social security numbers and credit cards. Also manners. They learned a lot about manners._

_Spencer stole a credit card from an angry woman. He felt bad, but he knew that she had money to spare, judging by her clothes and hair. He and his friends needed the money more. They, too, had named themselves. 15003 was now David Thomson and 77562 was Jenny Clarke. They had made their way to California, stopping on the way to get some forged identities. When they got there, Spencer got to work straightaway._

_He found them a temporary place to stay, squatting in an old warehouse, and got a job at a pizza place. The identity he had gotten made him 16 again, years younger than he really was. He was tall, yes, but he was still very childlike and nobody would be convinced if he had told them he was 19. Jenny was '18', and David was '16'._

_David invested in gloves and some hair dye, picking out a goth style, heavily laden with chains and tattoos. He figured that it was the best way to make it so that his eyes didn't stand out- people would assume that they were contacts._

_Jenny got a job at a local gym as a weights teacher, using her Institute-given gifts to earn some money. David was working part-time at a pizza joint that didn't give a crap about the way he looked, and Spencer got a job at the local university as a custodian._

_He made friends with the Dean of said university. Said Dean gave Spencer a full-ride scholarship as soon as he realized that he had employed a genius as a custodian. Spencer studied Psychology while continuing to work as a custodian. He needed the money to take care of his friends, who were quickly becoming more like a family. About a year after they had arrived in California, they had saved up enough to rent a little apartment. While it was small and moldy, it was better than squatting._

_A few years later, Jenny was now running the gym, David had moved on from pizzaman to an employee at an animal shelter (admittedly, it didn't pay well, but David felt that someone who knew what it was like to be caged should be taking care of the animals, and Jenny and Spencer agreed.) and Spencer had earned three PHds. He still worked as a custodian, but he gave lectures more often than not and was very well-respected at the tender age of '19'. In reality, he was 22, but it wasn't like he was going to say that. He figured that the steroids he had been given when he was younger had slowed his growing, because he honestly appeared to be younger than 19._

_But that was besides the point._

_Spencer knew that he would have to get a better-paying job, and soon. He didn't want to take David from his shelter or Jenny from her gym, but he knew that being a custodian wasn't going to cut it. He began job-hunting in earnest._

_But this time, he didn't want 'just' a job- he wanted a career. He wanted something that he could continue doing for the rest of his life, and be happy about it._

_One fateful day, he attended a lecture by Jason Gideon, and his whole life changed. He knew that this was the break he had been waiting for- he wanted to be a profiler when he grew up, to use the cliche phrase._

_After talking to Gideon and smoothing out a few details, he was on his way to the FBI Academy. He had talked to David and Jenny as well, and they were fine with him going, as long as he called every night and was careful. The identities they had gotten were very well-done (by this criminal whose name was probably not actually Neal Caffrey) but there was always the chance that they would be caught. And, of course, there was also the chance that the Institute would somehow find out about them._

_Spencer didn't think the chances of that were very high. He knew that he, Jenny, and David hadn't been that 'important' in the eyes of the whitecoats, but he also knew that he had been scheduled for execution and so he wasn't exactly eager to go back to that horrible, dark place. He also knew that he had a new skill, something like a perception filter. It was a little bit like the Invisibility Cloak in Harry Potter, but not exactly. Simply put, he could hide things._

_He could confuse people, too. It wasn't like he could control their minds- he could just obscure certain details, make them seem less important. Jenny called it his mind camouflage. He could also sense emotions. Nothing huge- he couldn't read minds. If he concentrated just a little, he could sort of sense what another person was feeling. It was all very useful when you were trying to escape notice._

_He promised to be careful and he was off, back to school, again._

_To say nothing else, he was proud of himself. He had graduated from the Academy and was on his way to his first day as a criminal profiler. He remembered the times when he was only a number and smiled at how far he had come. He was '22', or 25._

_He had moved to Virginia. It was a hard decision for Jenny and David, seeing as they had each built a life in California, but they had chosen to follow him there. They were family, and family stuck together. David's goth look had tamed over the years, but his wardrobe still consisted of mostly black and his hair was still dyed black, as opposed to its original sandy-brown. Jenny's muscles had evened out with the regular exercise and now seemed less… unnatural. She had grown taller, which might have helped. Her hair was a dark, dark brown and her skin was still unnaturally pale, but her green eyes never ceased to twinkle in amusement._

_As soon as the move had been complete, David had started hunting for a shelter to work at. Jenny picked up another local gym, but told them both that it just wasn't the same. She started looking into becoming a member of the police, noticing how the work, while difficult, was very fulfilling to Spencer._

_Years passed. Jenny became a cop. David continued his work at the shelter, becoming well-known in the area as a supporter of animal rights. Spencer grew closer to the team, but never did he introduce them to his first family. They got a bigger apartment with the money they each earned, and all was good. The team grew closer to Spencer, and they became a second family._

_The years they had spent, tortured, at the Institute, faded to the background, only coming out in the middle of the night, when everything was hazy and everyone was susceptible to nightmares._

Spencer was brought back to the present when the person sitting next to him on the subway farted.

_Ick._

It wasn't that bad, by normal-person standards, but when you're genetically engineered to be smarter than the average bear, and, as an extension, have an extremely sensitive nose (and ears, and eyes. But that's besides the point.) you smell things that you wouldn't wish on your worst enemy.

This was a similar case.

Judging from the frankly coma-inducing aroma, the rotund man next to him had recently chowed down on a burrito. More evidence to suggest this was the sauce that had stained his off-white old t-shirt. Said t-shirt also smelled.

Spencer simply couldn't wait to get out of the subway.

He looked away from the man, who was ignoring everything and playing Candy Crush on his phone, and searched for something more appealing to look at.

All he saw was a subway car full of people. Sure, there were some very nice-looking women, but he was too socially awkward to pull off a proper conversation. And you couldn't blame him, could you? He grew up in a dog crate- it wasn't as if social interaction was going to be something he was good at.

The point was, there was nothing to look at. But he needed something to do, before he asphyxiated. So he pulled out his sketchbook and a pencil and began drawing the scene in front of him.

The only person who knew about his love of drawing was David. Frankly, Spencer was embarrassed by it. He was sure that he wasn't very good, and nothing David had said would convince him otherwise.

The act of putting the world around him relaxed Spencer, and soon enough he was off in his own little world, not even noticing when the smelly man left, to be replaced by a very pretty woman. The lady was blonde-haired and her eyes were a most interesting grey-blue colour. She wore a dark-brown leather jacket and a nice white blouse paired with long jeans and boots. She wore glasses and the very tips of her hair were dyed violet.

At first, she too was occupied by her phone. But after a few minutes, Candy Crush got boring and she stowed the electronic in her pocket. She became very interested in the drawing Spencer was doing.

Spencer was still engrossed in his sketchbook, the rhythmic movements of the pencil lulling him into a meditative daze. The drawing was one of his best yet. Of course, in his mind, it was still a failure, but he felt a tiny sense of satisfaction at the fact that he was improving. Soon enough, he was adding the last detail.

_Aaannnddd…_ he was done! He quickly stowed his pencils in his bag and looked around, noting all that had changed since he had first looked up. He drew from memory, and so did not need to continually look around to get all of the shapes right.

He saw the pretty lady out of the corner of his eye and blushed when she realized that she was staring in shock at what he had drawn.

Thinking that, somehow, he had managed to offend her, he began stuttering out apologies.

"S-sorry! I know it's bad, but I was bored, a-and I needed something to do and I didn't bring a book a-and…" he trailed off as the lady shook her head, frowning in confusion.

She snatched the sketchbook out of his limp hands from where he had been attempting to shove it back into his satchel and opened it back up to the page, looking repeatedly from the picture back up to the scene around her, all the while speaking.

"Why are you apologizing? This is amazing! The detail is just, just _astounding_! This is one of the best sketches I've seen in my life, and, trust me, I've seen quite a few. Are you an artist?" The lady shot out, rapid-fire.

Spencer blinked at her, confused. He opened his mouth to respond, figuring it would be rude not to.

"Um, no, I'm not an artist. I just recently took up drawing as a sort of hobby. I was bored. Um, I work with the FBI." then, remembering that it was also considered polite to exchange names with people you are talking to, he introduced himself. "Dr. Spencer Reid, with the Behavioural Analysis Unit." he added a weak grin at the end, hoping that the woman would hand his sketchbook back and let him continue his ride in relative peace. He hated talking to people he didn't know- it was like navigating a land mine-strewn battlefield. He never knew what to say.

"Really? An FBI agent? That, my friend, is awesome. I'm Rebecca, Rebecca Anderson. I work with the art museum, I'm the one who sets up all the temporary, local artist displays. I get, like, a gajillion calls each day from amateurs who think they're hotshots when they can't even draw a nose straight. Trust me, I know art when I see it. This, man, is really good. May I?" Befuddled by the unexpected praise, he simply nodded, allowing her to flip through the rest of his ratty sketchbook.

The thing had been cheap, which was what he needed when he had bought it. He didn't have any delusions of grandeur, he just wanted a place dedicated to his scribbling, instead of the random sheaves of copy paper that he usually doodled on. So, one day, a few months ago, he had stopped by an art store and bought the cheapest sketchbook they had available. He was embarrassed by the woman, Rebecca, flipping through the drawings that he had been too ashamed (No, ashamed wasn't the right word, exactly. He just hadn't wanted to open himself up to Morgan's playful teasing.) to share with anyone. He had filled about three fourths of the sketchbook already, so Rebecca was pretty busy flipping through it all. It gave Spencer time to compose himself, get his jaw off the floor.

He had never encountered anyone like Rebecca before. She was very loud, but in a gentle sort of way. He didn't know anything about her, and, to be honest, he was a little bit intimidated by her overpowering personality, but he thought that he could probably like her. Not to mention, she was very pretty. Another blush formed across his face at the thought, but he forced it down before she noticed.

_No need to make this any more embarrassing than it already is,_ he thought to himself. Rebecca was muttering to herself as she looked over his work, analyzing it with an artist's eye. He decided he couldn't watch her and gazed awkwardly off to the side, very aware of her every move.

A few excruciating minutes later, she was done.

As she handed back the book respectfully, she asked doubtfully, "So you're saying that you just took up drawing recently?"

"Um, yeah. A few months ago. Like I said, I was bored. I'm really not that great, sorry." He averted his eyes and jammed the book in his satchel, none-too-gently. He didn't know what he was apologizing for, exactly, but he figured it was better safe than sorry.

"Not very good?! Mr. Spencer, like I said, I've seen a lot of art in my day and I have to say that was some of the best, especially for someone who only just started. I have a good feeling about you- you could go far in the art field, Mr."

"Um, it's Doctor."

"Sorry?" Rebecca asked, uncomprehending.

"It's Dr. Spencer, technically." here he managed a wry grin, continuing,"I kind of worked hard on those doctorates, it's always nice to get some recognition for it."

"Well, then, _Dr_. Spencer, I've got a feeling about you. Here's my card, please, call me. I'd like to set you up with something. Maybe over coffee? Anyways, call me. This is my stop, so I'd better be going." Rebecca didn't seem at all phased by his insistence on using his proper title- he knew from experience that some people found it rude, but he had worked hard on them, like he said.

With a brilliant smile and a wink, she handed him a colourful business card with her name, phone number, and email, along with her work address on it and she was gone.

_God, she's fast,_ he thought as she pushed her way through the slog of humanity.

He was left, dazed, in his seat, clutching the card in his hand.

Then he realized that it was his stop, too, and rushed off the train in much the same manner.

By the time he arrived to work, he had stuffed the card in between pages in his sketchbook and tried to push the odd encounter from his mind as he sat down at his desk, omnipresent coffee in hand.

He got to work on some paperwork that had been left for 'later' a long while ago. Normally, he was good with getting everything filed properly and in a timely fashion, but he had been a bit distracted lately. David had begun dating a girl, her name was Abby Sciuto. She was nice enough, if a little on the weird side, but then, Spencer wasn't exactly one to talk. She was a scientist, wore a white coat and everything, which had immediately made Spencer a little bit distrustful, but she didn't seem to be evil or anything. David seemed to really like her, and they shared a fashion sense, at the very least.

Apparently, they had met at the shelter. Abby had been a volunteer for ages, but they seemed to always miss each other. When they were finally properly introduced, the first thing she did was compliment him on his eyes. In her words, they were 'very cool'. It had become a running joke in their relationship- Abby was always bugging David to tell her where he had gotten the contacts that made his eyes look reptilian.

David had been surprised- most often the reaction was more along the lines of 'freakish', but it was a pleasant surprise. They had gotten to talking, and had hit it off immediately.

But that was besides the point, he thought as he shook his head to get rid of the uncooperative thoughts.

He valiantly attempted to focus on the paperwork in front of him, but his mind kept drifting. First it thought about Abby, and then how Jenny was doing. She had caught the flu and was stuck at home. David was taking the week off to take care of her, but Spencer couldn't do that to his team, especially because it would be suspicious, as he never took vacation time.

But the most common distraction that filled his head was the lady from the train with the blonde hair and the violet tips. She had been breathtakingly beautiful, now that he thought about it. He wanted to call her, but he needed an outside opinion. The emotions he had picked up from her certainly fit with what she had been saying, but he had always been one for absolute certainty.

He couldn't ask Morgan, that was just _asking_ for teasing. While he knew the friendly agent meant nothing by it, he preferred to just avert the situation before it could occur. Prentiss was an option, but he didn't know her as well as he thought he ought to for this sort of question. Hotch and Rossi were out, because, well, they were _Hotch_ and _Rossi_. They probably didn't want to be bothered by his lack of social skills.

That left Garcia and JJ.

Normally he talked these things over with Jenny, but she was sick and he didn't want to interfere with her convalescence. Garcia was the best, but Reid was going to go with JJ on this one. He needed someone… calmer.

Mind made up, Spencer got up and strode over to JJ's office, satchel over his shoulder and coffee, again, in hand.

The door was closed, so he knocked gently before entering at the sound of JJ's 'come in!'.

"Hey, Spence. What are you doing here?"

"Um, JJ, I need a little bit of advice, if you're not too busy."

"Nope, I've just finished up with the last thing. What do you need?" the perky blonde asked, smiling at her favourite genius.

"Well, I met this girl…" Before Spencer could explain that he barely knew her, JJ had let out an excited, Garcia-esque squeal.

"Spence! That's great! What's she like, what's her name, can I meet her?"

"Um, no, JJ, it's not like that. I literally just met her, she sat next to me on the subway on the way to work. I just have to ask you about something she said."

JJ looked a bit put-out that her friend hadn't finally found someone, but dropped the matter in favour of asking, "Sure, what is it?"

"Um, well, it's kind of silly and I would prefer Morgan not hear about it, please?" Spencer's chocolate doe eyes begged JJ.

"Of course, my lips are sealed. Now what is it you need?"

"I guess what I really need is your honest opinion on this thing I did. The person I met on the train said that it was really good, but I don't think so, and so I need to know if it's actually good or if her complimenting it was just her way of, um, I don't know, flirting, or maybe she's just really nice, but I don't think so because she looked kind of bossy and she didn't have a lot of manners. Not that I can talk, but, well, yeah."

JJ raised an eyebrow at this, noting that her genius was fairly flustered over this thing, whatever it was.

"Spence, calm down, I promise I'll be honest with… whatever it is."

Spencer took a breath and nodded, reaching into his satchel and pulling out the sketchbook. JJ was confused because she was sure that Spence didn't draw, but kept her mouth shut and waited as Spencer flipped through the well-worn pages and landed on the freshly drawn subway scene that had been the cause of the whole debacle.

He handed it to JJ, who looked over it. As she examined the art, her eyes widened in what can only be described as shock.

"Spencer! Did you draw this?" she gasped after a pause.

"Um, yeah." he nodded.

"I didn't know you could draw! This is really good! How long have you been doing this?" she asked, still looking in awe at the scene in front of her. The strokes, while hurriedly placed and kind of rough, were even and precise in their placement. It seemed that Spencer had been hiding his prodigious skill.

"Um, a few months, ish. I picked it up one day because I was bored."

JJ simply stared.

Spencer, uneasy at the prolonged eye contact, looked down towards his boots, a blush starting to spread across his cheeks.

He hated being stared at- perhaps it had something to do with the first 19 years of his life being spent under surveillance. That could, you know, put a damper on the whole 'being stared at' thing.

But in any case, he looked in the direction of his feet, and, in doing so, spotted a handy file. Seeing that it was perfect for a distraction, he grabbed it and flipped it open, immediately and automatically scanning it for information. Being a genius, his brain sometimes ran two trains of thought at once, so, on one hand, he was slightly freaked by JJ's staring, and, on the other, he was paying full attention to the file in front of him.

"Well, you're really awesome. Do you mind if I look through the rest, or is it private?"

Figuring that it had already been looked through once that day, he nodded once and focused again on the file.

The case it described was frighteningly familiar. Kids from one state (Indiana) were being kidnapped. The only connection was that all of the children had been young and healthy- there was no discrimination between race, gender, class, or anything that could have helped form a profile. The only reason that the cases had been marked as 'connected' was that they were all stolen as newborns from hospitals.

There were no witnesses.

The gist of the case was the same as the thing that had happened to Spencer, when he had been a kid. Or, at least, that's what they had assumed. It made the most sense for something like that to have happened, what with the number of unsolved child abductions and such.

Spencer had no idea where he had come from, or who he had left behind. Perhaps he had a mother and a father out there, parents who held out hope for his return, despite there being no logical reason to have done so. This was, obviously, the most desirable situation, but Spencer knew that it was much more likely that his parents, whoever they were, to have signed over their child to the School, or put him up for adoption, or something of the like.

Ultimately, he had decided a long time ago that Jenny and David were the only family he needed.

"Who's this?" JJ asked, having turned the page to see an incredibly detailed portrait of David, sitting on their couch next to Abby, watching a movie or perhaps a TV show.

"That's David and his girlfriend, Abby. He lives with me and is a close friend."

JJ looked again at the couple, noticing their multiple piercings and tattoos.

"Not to be rude, but they don't seem like people I would expect you to hang around with."

"They are both some of the nicest people I have ever met- David works at the animal shelter and Abby does volunteer work there- that's how they met." Spencer said, fondness for his friend and brother infusing his voice.

JJ nodded and continued flipping pages.

Spencer placed the file where he had found it and picked up another, just to keep his mind entertained while he waited for JJ to be done.

This time, the file was even more familiar to him.

It wasn't anything that probably needed the attention of the BAU, Spencer didn't even know why it was in the pile on JJ's desk, but as soon as he opened the file he knew that his team had to take the case.

He still needed to thank her.

A mugshot of a blonde girl with a strong stance and piercing, familiar eyes stared up at him from the paper.

They were familiar because he had seen them before.

They were the eyes of his literal guardian angel, Max Ride.

_**WHOOO.**_

_**4304 words this time, that's about double the last chapter. The thing with Rebecca was completely random, and I really hope she's not a Mary Sue. Please, tell me if she comes off that way? The whole 'art' thing came about because I've recently become very interested in the subject and, you know, 'write what you know' and all that. **_

_**There are cameos from other characters from shows that I watch in here, see if you can recognize them?**_

_**REVIEW!**_

_**~Pseu**_

_**P.S. song of the update is The Bird and The Worm by Owl City, because it's the one playing. I'd also like to recommend Ain't No Grave by Johnny Cash, because it just came on.**_

_**You could say I've got a diverse taste in music.**_

_**Soooo review! **_


	3. Chapter 3

**NOTE- I CHANGED THE NAME OF THIS STORY. IT USED TO BE 'THE SECRET LIFE OF SPENCER REID' BUT I FINALLY MANAGED TO COME UP WITH A BETTER ONE. **

Spencer glanced at JJ and saw that she was about halfway through his sketchbook- he had a minute or two. He didn't want to come out and say that this case was important to him- that might lead to questions that he couldn't answer. But he _needed_ to talk to Max- he had some questions for her, questions about rumours he had heard about the School.

He had heard that Max and her Flock had finished the School.

He didn't want to believe it until he knew for sure- false hope was the worst.

So he had about a minute to convince JJ to put him on the case- only him. As much as he loved his team, there were just some things he didn't want them knowing about him- namely, that he was a genuine freak that had lied his way into a 'legal' life.

He needed to use his mental 'pushing' powers.

It would be kind of risky- he had never tried what he was about to do, it was all theoretical. He figured that if he could make large details seem insignificant and smaller details to seem more important, he could probably skew JJ's perception enough to convince her that the case was important enough for a consult, but not enough for the whole team.

So he did.

It took a lot longer than a minute, but luckily he had put JJ in a little trance so she didn't actually notice all of the extra time gone by.

Finally, satisfied that he had done the best he could, Spencer 'released' JJ from her trance-like state and they resumed their conversation like nothing had happened.

"Well, this girl had it right. You're really good."

Spencer reclaimed his sketchbook and replaced it into his messanger bag, grinning a little from the praise.

"Thanks a lot, JJ. You've really cleared up a few of the things she said."

"Anytime," JJ returned, smiling warmly.

Spence quickly left JJ's office and returned to his desk, trying to not show how guilty he felt. He hated messing with people's heads and he hated to lie to his team and he hated the fact that he was too cowardly to tell them about himself. He hated it, but there was nothing he could do, aside from actually tell them, which was something he was not willing to do. So he shoved his guilt aside and set about his paperwork, awaiting the time when JJ would call them into the conference room to announce their newest case.

If his mind tricks had worked, then JJ would announce that Spencer was needed by the local police to interrogate a suspect.

If they hadn't worked…

Well.

He just hoped that they had.

Sure enough, a scant ten minutes later, JJ was calling them into the conference room. They shuffled in and took their regular seats, waiting for everyone to arrive before the meeting officially began. Reid listened idly to the banter between Prentiss and Morgan - something about Morgan's last night out and who he might have spent that night with, nothing Reid particularly wanted to chime in on - as he felt a tenseness inside him, building upon itself with bricks made of equal parts apprehension and guilt.

He hated having to use his 'powers', such as they were, on his team. Several times it had become necessary, for the retention of his job, but it always made him feel less like a person and more like that old number, the one that haunted him. Not to mention the fact that it gave him a massive headache when he overstretched himself, or when he tried something he had never done before. He could feel the pressure in his center and he felt the beginnings of its twin developing in his head.

The difference between a migraine of unknown origins and one that came after an overuse of the abilities he had been unwillingly granted was well known to the doctor; this one, he could already detect, was one of the latter. It was more of an ache than a stab, but it hurt just as bad.

He tried to blink it away, or at least blink it _back_, push it far enough so that he could deal with it later. JJ and Hotch, the last stragglers, entered the room and took their seats. Hotch passed around several files, and Reid noticed that he got the thinnest one. He recognized it from earlier. and he was silently relieved that his trick had worked.

He emerged from his thoughts:

". . .doing consults, in lieu of an actual case. Your files explain your own consults. Prentiss and Rossi, JJ and me, and Morgan and Reid will be working together on their individual consults. Dismissed."

That had been a short meeting, but Reid had to admit it got the point across. He was vaguely dismayed that the earlier display of his mental talents had failed in one aspect - he had Morgan as a partner on the consult and that would make it harder - but he knew that his luck had to run out sometime. At least he knew Morgan the best; perhaps, if the truth came out, Morgan would be stunned enough that he would have little trouble getting out.

A little voice in the back of Spencer's mind whispered that, perhaps, he wouldn't need to run, but Reid had done the calculations. The chances he would be accepted by the team in the same way he was now if they all found out was minimal at best. He didn't particularly enjoy reflecting on the exact numbers.

He made a pretense of scanning the file and rose, absent-mindedly heading to the door. The others, excepting Morgan, had already vacated the room and they were the only ones left, not that Reid noticed. He was in his own little world, thinking about both the consult _(how would he manage to get Max to trust him; for that matter, how would he convince Morgan he needed to question Max alone?)_ and about how he really didn't deserve such an amazing second family.

"So, Pretty Boy, I can tell something's goin' on in that head of yours. What is it?" Morgan's voice intruded unexpectedly on his reflections and he started.

". . . Nothing. Just, this case, it's-" Reid cut himself off, not exactly knowing what he was about to say. "-Nothing, it's nothing." he finished uncertainly.

Morgan raised an eyebrow doubtfully but let it slide at the almost-pained expression on his friend's face. "Reid, you got a migraine?" he inquired softly, intensely.

"No, no, just a headache this time. It's bad, but it's not the same."

"Well, you let me know if you need something. We'll take a company SUV to the local PD, I'll try to get one with tinted windows."

Reid nodded in thanks and sent Morgan a completely-fake-but-hopefully-real-looking grin and his eyes resumed their perusal of the file that still lay open in his hands. Morgan left and Reid remained stationary, rooted in his thoughts.

Maximum Ride. He wondered how he would react to him, wondered where her Flock was; why was she being held as a suspect in an abduction case, and why did everything about it smell more ratty than a sewer?

* * *

><p>As for Hotch and JJ, their mission didn't require anything other than a quick look at the files they had been given and an in-depth write-up, which would be sent by email when it was complete. They set up in Hotch's office, JJ bringing in her laptop and the files, scooting a chair closer to Hotch's desk, and getting to work.<p>

She felt like she was in school again, just a little, working on a group project or something.

The thought was exterminated by a sharp stab of pain behind her eyes, which she promptly slammed shut as she doubled over - as much as she could on the chair she was sitting on - and clutched her head, massaging her forehead with her thumbs.

_Spencer and Morgan ride out of the FBI parking lot in their freshly-requisitioned SUV. As they cross the gate, Spencer blinks as an odd, quasi-nauseous feeling jolts him, and some of the pain he feels in his head is eased. _

Hotch, whose calm reading had been disturbed at the movement, glanced up and immediately rose, transversing the large, oaken desk with a few quick steps.

"JJ? What's wrong?"

A pause, as JJ appeared to collect herself - though, admittedly, it was hard to tell exactly what she was doing, hunched over the way she was.

"Um, I'm not sure. One second I was fine, the next my head felt like it was spitting open; now, I'm fine again." JJ's confused voice reassured Hotch, but her words didn't. Something felt wrong about this, but JJ appeared to have brushed it off, so he let it go, returning to his seat and allowing his eyes to pick up where they had left off.

"_. . . suspect resisted arrest, but was successfully brought in for questioning. Transcript of Interrogation as follows. . ."_

As Hotch had no particular interest in the Transcript of Interrogation - he may appear to be made of stone to some, but he hated these tedious paperwork-type assignments as much as the next guy - he issued a question to the blue-eyed blond sitting across from him, looking as bored as he was.

"Why did you give us the case I gave to Reid and Morgan?" It was more than idle curiosity; he felt like there had been a specific reason for this one and he wanted to know that something wasn't compromising his teammate's ability to work. The case was simple enough, but nothing that would have required the BAU's input. JJ knew this, and yet she still chose the case, out of literally hundreds of pending requests. Something must have stuck out.

The answer both surprised and worried him. He had expected a logical reasoning behind the choice; that wasn't what he got.

". . . I honestly don't really know, Hotch. It just- it seemed to stick out, almost, from the others. Something about it just seemed, well, _bigger_, more important. I wouldn't say it felt right, necessarily- just the opposite, in fact. There's something wrong there, Hotch, and I don't know what."

Hotch had no response to that, so he just resumed reading. JJ took that as a cue, and quickly did the same.

"_. . .__**INTERROGATOR:**_ _Mr. Orwell, do you understand why you are here?_

_**MR. ORWELL:**_ _I'm here because you _[screened profanity] _have got it in your heads that I'm guilty of something, and I . . ."_

* * *

><p>Morgan kept sending Spencer concerned glances, and it was getting on the genius's nerves. Sure, it was a nice change to be worried about, as opposed to being the one worrying, but it got a little irritating once in a while. As Morgan's eyes kept leaving the road to observe him, Reid finally spoke.<p>

"An estimated 3,328 people were killed in car crashes involving distracted drivers in 2012. Please keep your eyes on the road, Morgan; I'm fine."*

"You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means."

"What word? And why the sudden _Princess Bride_ quote?" Reid asked, grinning at the familiar words.

"You always say you're fine, but whenever you say that, you're not. It makes me nervous when you say you're fine, because that means you're really not."

That gave Spencer pause. It was true, he admitted- he did tend to overuse the word; perhaps he had stretched the definition a little in the past, maybe.

"While that may be true, this time I'm _fine_. I took some Advil earlier and it seems to be working. And you didn't answer my second question- why have you decided you're Inigo Montoya?"

"My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die."

Any trace of tension vanished and they both chuckled lightheartedly. Spencer tried not to let his smile wane when he realized that this may well be the last time such banter passed between the two.

* * *

><p>Reid was in a tricky situation. He and Morgan had both walked into the local police department and made themselves known to the Sheriff, as usual.<p>

"Sheriff Longstead, I'm SSA Morgan and this is Dr. Reid, from the BAU. We're here to help with the suspect you apprehended."

"Wow, I wasn't expecting y'all to come down here for something this little. I'll just take you to Detective Haversham, who is heading the case. He'll fill you in."

"Normally you're right, we wouldn't have come. But today was a paperwork day, so we thought we could help out a bit around town." Morgan stated. The agent and the sheriff exchanged some more pleasantries on the way over to the detective's desk, and Reid stayed out of the conversation, not particularly in the mood for social interaction.

The organs that made their home in his midsection had, for some reason, decided that they was discontented with their regular positioning and had begun to contort themselves, tying themselves in knots.

It was rather unpleasant.

He knew why he was so nervous, though. It wasn't just the fact that he could very well be facing alienation from his team - his _family_ - and perhaps even suspension of his fake identity; it was that he might potentially put his team in danger. There were reasons he had kept this whole thing a secret. Chief among said reasons was that he knew his team would want to put a stop to the organization that had held himself and so many others captive over the years, and he knew that they would fail. The School and its ideology were too far-spread for one team of seven to take down, even if you counted the fact that the seven people involved were seven of the smartest people Reid had ever met.

The Sheriff left them with Detective Haversham - "Please, call me Dan." - and returned to his office, quite obviously in the midst of his own version of 'paperwork day'.

"So you two have already read the file, right?" At the nods he received from both of them, Detective Dan continued, "She hasn't said anything other than that her name is Max and she's innocent. She hasn't asked for a lawyer, but she did demand a phone call. Other than that and a request for a glass of water - a request we denied - she hasn't said a word."

They had been walking while Dan was talking, and they had reached the door that lead into the room behind the stereotypical one-way mirror just as Dan had finished talking.

Reid knew Morgan thought he would be interrogating Max, and so he said, "Morgan, I want to go in there. I have an idea."

Morgan nodded, not really having any objections. Reid's slight mental prodding may or may not have had anything to do with that.

And thus lay Reid's problem. Not only was Morgan planning on watching the interrogation, but Dan was, too. Reid gazed through the mirror-window, ostensibly observing Max, but in reality, he was delving into the detective's mind, searching for a way to get him _out_. He knew he had found it when he sensed a concern Dan had - something about another case he was working, some cross-referencing he had been planning on doing before the two federal agents had arrived.

Reid took that plan and inflated it in the detective's brain, making it seem more important than what he was doing now, and sure enough, Dan made an excuse and hurried out.

_One down_, Reid thought, and knew that there would be no way to convince Morgan to leave him.

He nodded to himself once, physically breaking off the connection with the detective's mind, and removed his gaze from where it had been resting, apparently on Max.

Before exiting the room, he rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. When he got a raised eyebrow from Morgan because of it, he simply said, "I've got a plan," before striding out of the room and into the hallway.

Ensuring that said hallway was deserted, he quickly swiped away the concealer that hid his old tattoo, the one the Institute had given him. It rested, in official Times New Roman font, on the belly of his forearm like a ominous black spider. 221-B-56. The concealer was something he wore regularly over the tattoo- he didn't like looking at it and it would cause too many questions if someone saw it.

Every experiment in the Institute that lasted more than a week had the tattoo, in the same spot. The 'scientists' there had wanted to be able to tell them apart, without the worry of memorizing faces. The tattoos were a way of doing that. Also, tattoos were permanent, so it was a way of differentiating experiments from civilians if, by chance, an experiment escaped. **

He rubbed the concealer off, knowing that Max would require proof that he was who he said he was. That was why he had rolled up his sleeves- ease of access.

He took a deep, calming breath, and opened the door of the interrogation, striding in with a confidence he didn't feel.

Max's muddy brown eyes followed him as he walked from the door to the cliche, uncomfortable, metal chair and lowered his thin form into it gingerly.

She was remarkably calm for the position she was in, appearing even bored, though he didn't blame her. It wasn't like there was a lot to do in the plain, grey-ish room. On the table rested two outdated microphones, obviously recording every word that was spoken. Luckily enough, the station's more technologically advanced interrogation rooms were in use, and this was the only one in the place that had yet to be fitted with cameras. That meant that, thankfully, Morgan should be the only one to witness what was to come.

Reid made none of the usual pretenses - reading the file over again, observing the suspect, mumbling affirmations to himself vaguely - and instead got straight to the heart of the matter.

"Do you know why you're here?" he asked, knowing that if he didn't start with the typical set of preliminary review questions, Morgan would get suspicious.

"Yeah, I'm here because I'm kinda homeless and was at the wrong place at the wrong time."

Reid nodded, knowing that what she said went with what was on the file he had read.

Tamoura Little was an 8 year old girl who had been walking home from school when she had been abducted. Max was the only suspect the police could find, and it could have very well been a case of wrong-place-wrong-time, except for the fact that Max resisted arrest and proceeded to act in a most suspicious manner when they arrived at the station.

"Do you know what happened to Tamoura Little?"

"Yes."

"Can you tell me what happened to Tamoura Little?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Reid let that answer hang in the air for a moment before nodding slowly and changing his posture and body language completely. Before he had seemed to be a bored, under-paid menial worker, sent in for protocol's sake and nothing more. The tone and wording of the questions made them seem mandatory and long-sufferingly memorized.

Now, he was attentive, making eye contact and appearing absorbed in the conversation, despite the fact that there had yet to be a conversation of any real value.

"Alright, time to cut the crap. My name is Doctor Spencer Reid, and I want to thank you, Max Ride."

It was astounding how quickly Max's guard went up at those words. He knew that she had purposefully not informed the police of her last name, so he knew that she would catch the fact that the knowledge was out of place in his head.

Her now-razor-sharp eyes bored into him with an intensity born of a great deal of suffering.

"Don't much like doctors. Can't imagine why you'd want to thank me; I make a point of not doing favors for them."

"I wasn't a doctor yet when you did me this favor, and I understand your distaste- I've met quite a few doctors who weren't. . . pleasant, if you will."

"Who _are_ you?"

"I told you, Max- I'm Spencer Reid." And here was where it got tricky. Reid reached over and switched off the microphones, cutting off his connection to that room that lay behind him. He couldn't hear them and they couldn't hear him.

Her eyes, if possible, grew even sharper at his unexpected movement. Her mistrust was almost tangible, making the room tense.

"How did you know my name?" she spat.

"You told it to me the day you let us out." Here he extended his arm towards her, brandishing the tattoo like it was an olive branch. "I was nineteen when you were in New York, when you stormed the Institute and let me and my brother and sister go free, and I wanted to thank you. No, I _needed_ to thank you. Because of what you did, David, Jenny and I have gotten a chance at a life we never could have dreamed of from behind those walls, from within those cages."

Max relaxed at his words, but the suspicion hadn't completely left its semi-permanent residency in her eyes.

"How do I know you're not lying? How do I know you're not one of them, pretending to spin a little sob story? After all, someone with that background would probably not have grown up to be a _doctor_, of all things."

"I didn't really have much of a choice, really- they messed around in my brain, made it so that I could think faster. I'm too smart for my own good. I didn't get degrees in biology- too many bad memories- and I almost quit Chemistry when I saw how many test tubes were involved, But for the most part I stuck with math-based sciences."

"Makes sense, if you're telling the truth. You haven't convinced me yet, Doctor Reid."

Reid nodded, not expecting it to have been that easy. He bit his lip in pondoration, wondering what he could do or say to convince Max he was being truthful. An idea came to mind and he pulled out his phone, unlocking it and fiddling with it until it did what he wanted.

"A phone call won't prove anything, by the way. For all I know, you could've-"

Reid interrupted her absently. "-Yeah, I could have someone on the other end who is reading from a script or something, I know. Luckily for you, I had a different idea. This is me, Jenny, and David at a Chinese restaurant on David's birthday." He slid the phone over to her. It was opened to a happy picture of Reid, Jenny, and David squished onto one side of a booth, so that the kindly waitress could more easily capture the moment. A smallish, dark-blue cake was displayed in the center of the table, candles flaming and flickering. The wording read, _Happy birthday, David!_ and Reid had written it himself.

Max scrolled through some more of the pictures. After the very clearly posed picture at the beginning, the waitress had captured David blowing out the candles, the cutting of the cake, and the disastrous attempted use of chopsticks to consume the pastry. The reason he was showing these pictures was because, if you knew what to look for, you could clearly tell that Jenny and David had been mutated. It wasn't so obvious with himself, because he had more experience hiding it. Apart from the physical things, like David's eyes, there was just a wariness in their manner that couldn't be masked or replicated.

Reid particularly liked looking at those photos when he was working on very difficult cases- they reminded him that there was always something worth fighting for. They reminded him that, even while they had been through so much, they could still smile, and _mean _it.

Max sat for a minute, absorbing the evidence he had presented her with. It wasn't an accident that he had positioned his arm so that the dreaded ink was visible to her.

"Alright, say I believe you. What are you doing here?"

"I work for the FBI, on the Behavioural Analysis Unit, commonly referred to as the BAU. We hunt serial murderers, child rapists, abductors, bombers. We get requests from local police departments and, based on the urgency of the request, we go across the country, profiling said criminals. We use our knowledge of psychology and experience in the field to try and understand the criminals, because if we have even a basic understanding of what makes a person tick, we can more clearly predict their moves."

"Again, what are you doing _here_?"

"Tamoura's case, because she's so young, is special. Someone out there decided it was special enough to request our presence. We work not far from here and there were no pressing cases that required our presence, so, once I saw the file, I convinced our team leader to let us come down here. I just needed to let you know that I am so very grateful for letting us out. I would be dead if you hadn't- they had scheduled me for extermination the very next day."

Max nodded at that, not verbally responding at first. Finally, she said simply, "You're welcome."

Spencer grinned happily at her, glad he had conveyed what he had come there to say. He reached over and switched on the recording devices again, saying as he did so, "Now, onto what I'm actually here for- Tamoura Little. You said I wouldn't believe you if you told me what happened to her, right? Care to change your answer?"

Thankfully, Max got the message- nothing they had discussed was to go on-record. That made what she was about to say harder, because it related to their murky pasts.

_Screw it_, she thought.

"Erasers got her."

". . . Sh*t."

"Exactly. I don't know what you're going to do, Doctor- it's clear that this hasn't exactly been a topic of discussion for your team, judging by previous actions-" she gestured to the recording devices and he nodded in affirmation, "-and you're the only one who knows what that means. Sorry it had to come to this, but it seems you have some explaining to do."

"I'm inclined to agree. Do you know anything else about recent actions they've made?"

"No, I haven't noticed anything other than the usual stuff, but the Flock is nearby and they're doing some research while I'm stuck in here. They should know more by now. The Erasers were more quick than normal, and rather sleek- think less 'lumbering bear' and more 'growling coyote'."

"I heard rumors that you and the Flock had taken down the School; I'm assuming that's untrue?"

"We made a go at it in Germany- destroyed the headquarters and everything- but I guess the survivors banded together and continued."

Before the conversation could continue, Morgan interrupted them, a furious look on his face.

"Reid, we need to talk. Right _now_."

Spencer sighed and made eye contact with Max one more time, mouthing _Thank you_ again as he was led out by an almost-quivering-with-rage Derek Morgan.

* * *

><p><strong>*Yes! A real, live statistic! I looked this up- It is a fact. I found it on a government-sponsored website. <strong>

****This is a headcanon. Feel free to use it, but it's not something in the books. **

Wow! An update! What a rarity! Anyways, I've pretty much figured out that the only way for me to write this story properly is to sit down and _write_, and to write roughly 2,000 words each session. I did most of this chapter yesterday, and it's a total of 4,634 words.

Song of the update is Call Me, by Shinedown.

Other than that, HAPPY SUMMER, Y'ALL!

~Pseu


	4. Chapter 4

**Y'all should seriously thank faye-shard for getting this chapter out. I had sort of let writing fall to the background for a while because, you know, real life and all that crap, but faye-shard reminded me that I sorta have an obligation to y'all. **

**Here's the next chapter, and I have something important to tell y'all.**

**IMPORTANT! ! ! ! ! ! READ THIS!**

**goodness that was obnoxious but I do realize a lot of y'all don't read A/Ns and this is very important: Due to both David and Jenny's names being too similar to the names of team members (****_David_**** Rossi, ****_Jennifer_**** Jareu) I changed the names. I'll go back and edit the previous chapters so that they reflect the fact that ****David Thomson is now Ian thomson, and Jenny Clarke is now Marrissa Clarke.**** THUS ENDS THE IMPORTANT NOTES**

Morgan's large hand completely encircled Reid's bicep as he lead the doctor, quite forcibly, into the room on the other side of the one-way mirror.

"What the _hell_ was that?" Morgan hissed, once they were completely inside and the door was firmly shut.

Reid didn't know what to say, honestly. He was still rattled by seeing Max again, and now at the thought that the School was still operating? He had managed to convince himself, a long time ago, that the Flock had somehow shut them down. In hindsight it was foolish, but he had clung to the belief with all he had, to sooth the guilt he felt at not raising a hand against the ruthless organization. So he was still shocked, and was therefore completely unable to come up with a response.

The best he could manage was a weak, "It's a long story. . . . ?" that, even to him, sounded more like a question than an answer. To be honest, Morgan was scaring him. The grip on his arm was tight enough, but add to that the fact that physical contact was almost unbearable for Reid? So, when Spencer flinched away from Morgan, it wasn't at all unreasonable.

But it did make Morgan realize how harshly he was treating his friend. Obviously, Morgan thought, Reid knew the girl. It irked him that the kid had kept something that seemed to be a big part of his life away from him, because they were _friends_. He was also irritated that the genius had deliberately cut him out of an important conversation, and he was also worried for his friend- everything about the situation screamed 'dangerous'.

Morgan took a deep breath and calmed down a bit before saying, "I'm not going anywhere."

But again, their conversation was interrupted, this time by the police station's fire detectors going off.

As neither of the two agents had a working knowledge of the local fire emergency plan, and they trusted the locals to handle the logistics, they simply hurried out of the building and onto the street, where they stood in the middle of a crowd that was milling around itself in confusion. A faint fear infused the atmosphere, but it was tempered by a curiosity that came from the fact that the police department didn't _look_ like it was on fire. No smoke gathered ominously over the structure and windows weren't exploding outwards, like they often did in the more dramatic movies.

The herd of temporarily displaced people stared at the building, transfixed, waiting for visible signs to reinforce the obnoxious auditory cues they had received whilst still indoors.

None came, and the tension in the air increased when distant sirens grew nearer and nearer, signalling the imminent arrival of the fire department.

Before the esteemed Big Red Trucks arrived, Spencer felt a tugging on his arm once again; thankfully, a gentler pull than before. He twisted his head around slowly, to see that it was Max who had touched him. Behind her, he saw another Flock member - Fang, he thought, though there was a wide margin for error, as he hadn't seen a Flock-member in years - and suddenly the earsplitting shrieks coming from the low-slung, glassy architecture in front of him made sense.

The Flock had swooped in when their leader had been in police custody for 'too long,' and they had plotted an escape, taking advantage of the Emergency Exit procedures.

"Clever," he muttered to himself, and, with a minute hand gesture, indicated Morgan and raised an eyebrow, silently asking if he could bring the fellow agent along.

Max's equally silent, negative response was not unexpected. Reid slipped away through the crowd, following Max as he had once before. It was insultingly easy to escape the scene, as every person was still watching the quiet building, as if expecting it to spontaneously combust before their very eyes.

* * *

><p>Once Reid had been pulled to a distance deemed 'safe', the rush died away and they were able to walk in a more relaxed manner. Max and Fang - Reid knew it was Fang because he had introduced himself - were the only ones accompanying him. Fang had been the one to pull the alarm and assist Max with her escape. The rest of the Flock waited for their return at an undisclosed location.<p>

Max broke the quasi-awkward silence, "Can your friends help us?"

"Which friends? The BAU, or Marrissa and Ian? Marrissa and Ian would love to help, and the BAU has a lot of resources we could use, but I don't think it would be wise to get them involved."

"Alright, call Marrissa and Ian. We'll leave the BAU out of this, for now. How much do you trust them? Could they be a last resort?"

"If it weren't for the fact that they don't understand the situation, I would have suggested we bring them in. They're like family."

Max nodded and fell silent as Spencer brought out his phone and dialed the familiar number.

Because both Marrissa and Ian were at work, the ringing went to voice-mail. At the beep, he left the following message:

"Hey, it's Spencer; the BAU got a case involving the School. I'm still in town and your help would be great. If you can meet us at the place where there is no darkness, that'd be best. Don't call back on this phone, I'm hiding."

The place where there is no darkness was a reference to a conversation that the three had shared after each of them read George Orwell's _1984_. In said book, the place where there is no darkness was the torture chambers that resided in the misnamed Ministry of Love. There was no darkness in that place because the lights were kept at a permanent, dimly illuminating smoulder. This, in turn, made it both difficult for the tortured to sleep, and difficult for him or her to stay awake.

The conversation that had ensued after the trio had read the book was mostly irrelevant; only one point that was made ended up meaning anything.

It was Ian that had suggested the idea, the idea that the place where there is no darkness sounded more like a happy place than a dangerous one. The two quickly agreed with their counterpart. Reid specifically remembered - though when did he not? - delivering the line, "As _darkness_ is typically regarded as a bad thing, an evil to be avoided, the place where there _is_ none, it stands to reason, would be a happy, sunlit place. Personally, it made me think of that bookstore off the corner of Goldburg and Fifty-first."*

Thus, the quaint little bookstore that sold heavenly coffee and resided off the corner of Goldburg and Fifty-first became, to the trio, the place where there was no darkness. The good thing about using it as a covert meeting spot was that nobody else would know the true meaning of the words. Also, none of the team knew about the bookshop.

After he left that encrypted message, he did not turn his phone off, in order to render it untrackable. Instead, he opened the 'notepad' app and typed a quick message, knowing that the next person to open his phone would be treated to the hurriedly-typed-but-typo-free message.

_Sorry for leaving you out, but this particular 'case' involves things that are buried far too deep. Please, if you know what's good for you, STAY AWAY FROM THIS. Leave it as it is, DON'T come after me, and, I'll explain everything when I get back. -Reid_

In his head, he added, '_if I get back'_.

Of course, he didn't write that in the note.

He left his phone badly hidden behind a dirty gutter, knowing that his team would find it. He also knew that they would not heed his warning, but he knew that he had to at least try to dissuade them. Where they were going, there was no place for 'normal' people.'

As he strode away, it occurred to him that he was abandoning his last tangible link to the team.

He brushed the thought away, irritably, and explained to Max the way to the bookshop.

* * *

><p>Morgan was freaking out over the fact that Reid had disappeared.<p>

Of course, this had happened before. The amount of times Reid had disappeared was an astonishingly large number. But this was different. This felt like Reid had done it on purpose.

When Morgan heard that not only was the genius gone, but the mysterious Max Ride as well, he had the most uncomfortable feeling that Reid was with her; he felt like his teammate was _fleeing from the law_.

For Morgan, this was extremely disconcerting - what reason could Reid possibly have to not trust them with whatever was going on?

Soon enough, the rest of the team had arrived. They had been called off of their various consults; after all, this was much more important. This was a matter of inter-team relationships and it appeared that their little genius had some explaining to do.

The rest of the team met up at the local police department, for no other reason than that the recordings of the conversation - choppy as they were - were located there.

JJ and Hotch arrived first, because their office was closer than where Prentiss and Rossi had gone. Both were in a reasonable panic, though, of course, Hotch was better at hiding it. While everyone knew that Reid had a nasty habit of disappearing, they always hated it. They met Morgan in a space that had been hurriedly cleared out for them when it had become apparent that the consult had evolved into a full-out case.

This wasn't just about Tamoura Little, anymore. This was about Reid.

Morgan was in the process of filling in Garcia when the two had arrived, and they were followed in a few minutes when Rossi and Prentiss finally arrived. Once the team was reunited and fully informed of the situation, Morgan started the proactive portion of their meeting by prompting Garcia to track Reid's cell phone.

"Baby Girl, could you track Reid's phone?"

The normally bubbly techie was somewhat less so and, in her emotional state, had not already done so. She felt the need to slap her own forehead at her own idiocy but, instead, raced her fingers across her ever-faithful keyboard, saying as she did so:

"Yes, I can, just give me a sec. . . ." here she trailed off, and the whole team was comforted as they heard the familiar clack of her rapid typing over the speaker.

"Yeah, here it is! Wow, not turned off or anything. Uhh, it seems to be staying still, right on the corner of Renaissance Rd. and Thirty-fifth. I can pull up cameras. . . ?" Here she trailed off, questioningly.

At Morgan's affirmative, she did so and quickly scanned the multiple angles for any sign of her favourite genius. She was disappointed, but not entirely surprised, when there was none.

"He's not there," she relayed to the team.

They were also disappointed, but not surprised.

Hotch took over, barking orders in his customary commanding tone. "Prentiss, JJ, you two go to that corner and see if you can find his phone. Morgan, get the recording of the conversation from the interrogation room in here, and Garcia, find out if Reid's made any calls recently. Also, see if you can track him through the cameras."

It was unspoken that Rossi would stay back and wait for Morgan to bring them the recording, so that the three men could conference over it, drawing conclusions and making inferences.

Having been ordered, the team rushed to obey. At Garcia's hurried-but-customary goodbye - "Go find my baby genius, friends!" - they each rushed off to complete their assigned duties.

* * *

><p>JJ let Emily drive, remembering suddenly the headache that had overcome her earlier and not wanting a repeat of the event causing automobilic problems. A faint frown pulled at her brow as she wondered what was wrong with her; while she had dismissed her pain to Hotch earlier, she knew that such a strong affliction was not something to ignore. She had never had problems with migraines or anything of the sort, and, as such, had been completely blindsided.<p>

Knowing that the immediate problem was Reid, however, she pushed her concerns to the back of her head, to be dwelled upon later.

She thought about how, just earlier, she had the lanky man in her office, innocently inquiring about an exchange he had had earlier, with a girl on the subway.

The frown that hadn't entirely faded from before was back again, as she realised that about halfway through their conversation, she couldn't remember what they discussed. She had the feeling it had something to do with the Tamoura Little's case file, but she hadn't the foggiest idea _what_.

Something weird was going on.

Feeling like she was going crazy, JJ kept the thought to herself as her friend's driving became increasingly angered, because they kept getting stuck in traffic. It was against policy to use the sirens unless they were pursuing an unsub**, which just served to make the slow-moving cars more irritating.

Soon enough, they had arrived. The street corner was within walking distance of the police department, so it didn't take as long as they thought it might have. They both exited the stereotypical black suburban at the exact same time, slamming the doors in unison and rushing to the sidewalk. Emily whipped out her cell and called Garcia.

"What can I do for you today, oh Agent my Agent?"

"Garcia, have you managed to rewind the cameras enough so that you can see where Reid was and what he did when he was here?"

"Of course I have, silly. What do you need?"

"Do you see where his phone ended up?"

A pause, as Garcia presumably sifts through the footage to find the placement of the erstwhile device.

"Alright, do you see the old insurance building?"

Prentiss confirmed that yes, she did indeed see the old insurance building, and began striding over to it, JJ following close behind.

"It appears that our genius hid the phone himself - badly, I might add - behind the drainpipe to your right."

Following the directions given to her, Prentiss was rewarded when she drew out the familiar object.

"I've got it." She proclaimed, both too JJ and Garcia.

The blonde on the phone imparted upon them one of her typical, whimsical farewells, and the two female agents re-entered the government-supplied vehicle and began the drive back to the police department, all the while pondering what had driven their youngest to abandon his phone willingly.

* * *

><p>Meanwhile, Reid, Max, and Fang headed over to the bookstore, using Reid's knowledge of Garcia's technological prowess in order to evade cameras and, hopefully, stop his team from tracking them.<p>

Spencer was feeling more and more guilty at the panic he must be putting his team through, and this guilt was slowly adding to the remorse he felt for earlier. The two compounded in his heart, joining his still-present headache in making him miserable.

Not to mention the fact that Fang was currently questioning Max about his trustworthiness, and he was doing it _right in front of him_. Granted, there wasn't really any other option, and Reid realized that he was an outsider in the tight-knit group of his saviours, but even _he_ knew that Fang was being rude.

Max, apparently, knew it, too.

"Look, Fang, I get it! He's new! But I just trust him, okay? And you had better, as well."

At this, Fang nodded, but his frown didn't abate, and Reid knew that he wasn't very pleased with the answer.

It took them about fifteen minutes longer than it should have to get to the bookstore, because they were actively avoiding all cameras. When they arrived, they realized that they still had to wait for the two others to arrive. Naturally, both Fang and Max were irked by this fact, neither of them appreciating the need to wait.

Towards the back of the store, there were a few tables and a barista, selling Starbucks-esque pastries and coffee. Max and Fang grabbed a table and Spencer took the opportunity to indulge himself, because he had only had one coffee that day and he needed to remedy that fact, as it was well into the afternoon already.

When he returned to the old, wobbly, wooden table and sat down on a cushioned bar stool that was currently serving as a seat, he took the opportunity that the awkward silence provided to observe his surroundings.

The building shared walls with two other stores, and was that particular design that only city stores have- long and thin, making it seem like it went on forever. Bookshelves lined the walls and there were two that ran down the center, stopping two shelves before the ones that stretched along the walls, to make room for the coffee nook. The entire front of the store was glass, and sunlight streamed in through it, giving the store an idyllic, golden glow.

This was part of the appeal that the store held for Spencer, part of the reason it came to mind when the phrase 'place with no darkness' was uttered.

As his childhood was split between moments of pure, syrupy darkness and harsh, white, artificial light, the fact that this bookstore was lit, for the most part, by the sun, just made him feel safe. Of course, if it was just the sun that light the place, there would have been far too many shadows for his comfort. Luckily, the owners had visited flea markets, garage sales, and antique shows in order to acquire a wide variety of eclectic lamps, which they had set up at every opportunity to do so, ensuring that a soft, golden glow pervaded throughout.

It was not rare for these lamps to be used as bookends.

Another thing Spencer enjoyed about the bookstore was the coffee. It was like heaven. He had asked, multiple times, how the barista made it taste so _good_, but she had merely winked at him and brushed it off as a 'trade secret'. He was reminded of his love of the god-like substance as he took a sip, absent-mindedly.

Every thought, every fear, worry, emotion, was wiped from his mind in that instant. All he could comprehend was the liquid caressing his tongue, flowing into his stomach, warming him from the inside out.

He grinned as he returned to himself, and cradled the substance in his hands, enjoying the way it warmed his long, pale fingers as they encircled it.

The square table that Max and Fang had claimed was surrounded by four chairs, none of which matched. There was Spencer's own miniature bar stool, there was a straight-backed wooden contraption that looked extremely uncomfortable that sat, empty, to his right. Max had taken up residence in a baby-blue wingback that, while remarkably sturdy and clean, looked worn, as if it had seen better days. Fang had plopped down on a hard, plastic, ergonomic number that was violently lime-green. Appearances led one to believe that it was extremely uncomfortable, but Spencer knew from experience that it was, indeed, most likely the most comfortable chair in the entire store.

Spencer knew the owners of this particular store, having spent so much time there. It was owned by a couple, Renee and Joseph Snelling. They had achieved a stately middle-age, and the two children they had raised were well into their twenties, and had paired off into their own couples, making an admirable effort to keep in touch, despite the many miles that now separated them. It was just recently that the Snellings had recieved word that their eldest daughter, at 28, was expecting a child. Reid had met the daughter and her husband once, and so matched the proud parents - both old and new - in their enthusiasm.

Spencer had enjoyed many a chat with them, and they treated him with a fondness that he appreciated. It was a welcome affection, especially after a bad case.

Everyone had their safe haven; this was his.

He could say, with a reasonable amount of certainty, that he had already read every single book that was ensconced within the dark-wood shelves. This didn't stop him from coming back, again and again, often bringing his own books. Innumerable times, he had written up papers sitting on the very chair that Fang now occupied.

If ever there was a home-away-from-home, this was it.

Out of habit, he reached to his side, wanting to grab his sketchbook from his ever-present leather satchel, only to realize he had left it with Morgan at the police department. Barely containing his sign of disappointment, he realized that, other than his coffee, he had nothing to do until his siblings arrived.

He rose from his seat and walked the familiar aisles, stopping only when he reached the area in which his favourite novel rested. He pulled it out, as he had done many times before, and walked back to his seat, cracking it open only once he had sat down.

This was going to be a long wait.

* * *

><p>Hotch put out the call that the team would all be returning to their own office, reasoning that, now they had the recording and Tamoura Little's file, they could work better from there, being more comfortable. They all met up in the conference room, even Garcia, to present their varied findings. It almost felt like normal.<p>

JJ went first, explaining where they had found the phone and that Spencer had been the one to hide it, not appearing to be under duress, of any sort. She explained that, upon opening the phone, she had seen the note he had left. It was short and to-the-point, something to be expected from someone in a hurry.

'_Sorry for leaving you out, but this particular 'case' involves things that are buried far too deep. Please, if you know what's good for you, STAY AWAY FROM THIS. Leave it as it is, DON'T come after me, and, I'll explain everything when I get back. -Reid' _

As much as it pained them to do so, they profiled it.

"The capital letters, emphasis - he's obviously making it clear that he doesn't want our help, that he wants up to stay away."

"When he refers to the situation as 'this', it's like he doesn't have a word for what's going on. He very well could be as confused as we are, or maybe he's purposefully trying to keep us in the dark?"

"He says he's coming back, that he'll explain everything then, like he's too busy to explain now, suggesting that it's a long, complicated story."

Ultimately, they could draw little from the note that was not obvious. He was firm about not wanting their help, it was about something in his past, and it was a complicated situation. Of course, there was the unspoken thought that whatever 'this' was, it was dangerous; why else would he have warned them away?

Nobody wanted to think about it, much less say it out loud, but they all knew that everyone was thinking it.

Garcia tugged open her laptop to, presumably, present her own discoveries.

"Alright, as skeezy as I felt while doing so, I did a little digging around our genius's stuff. He only made one call today, and there was no suspicious activity going on prior to said call; it seems that this was all rather sudden. Said call took place right before he left his phone on the street corner- I've got footage of him making it. He called a number that was in his contacts as 'Ian', and, when this 'Ian' guy didn't pick up, he left a message. Luckily for us, I managed to get a recording of the voicemail. For the purposes of plausible deniability, don't ask me how I did so."

The team was not at all surprised that Garcia was willing to break a few laws in order to recover their genius, and simply ignored the matter, prompting her to play the recording.

She hit the 'play' button and Reid's voice filled the air, the recording surprisingly clear.

"_Hey, it's Spencer; the BAU got a case involving the School. I'm still in town and your help would be great. If you can meet us at the place where there is no darkness, that'd be best. Don't call back on this phone, I'm hiding."_

His words weren't rushed, he didn't stutter, and he didn't seem to be stressed out at all. Clearly, he knew Ian well enough to have a planned meeting place, and to encode the name of said meeting place, presumably to evade trackers. These were the observations the team immediately made, sharing them amongst themselves as they thought of them.

"Something's bugging me," Morgan said ponderously and, at the curious looks he got from his comrades, he expounded thusly: "In both this recording and what I heard from the interrogation room, Reid mentions a 'school', but he says it almost like it's a threat, like this specific school was bad news."

"Yeah, another thing," Garcia chimed in with more findings. "After I heard the voicemail, I tried to find a connection between Reid and the Ian guy and, well, I found one. I've got a lease on Reid's apartment, signed three different ways- Reid, Ian, and a girl named Marrissa. It looks like they're roomies."

"For how long?" Prentiss asked, wondering how she didn't know that. _Come to think of it,_ she thought, _has any of us ever been to Reid's place?_ She posed the question to the team and found herself unsurprised at the negative responses she received.

"So _none_ of us have even seen Reid's apartment? Really?" Garcia verified, but then moved on to answer Emily's original question. "Well, it seems like, when Reid joined the team, he moved here from Las Vegas, _with_ the mysterious roommates. That means for as long as any of us have known him, he's lived with these two."

"Could you find out anything about them now?" Rossi inquired.

"Sure, give me. . . one second. . . and, here we are! Marrissa Clarke- when she moved here originally, she worked at a local gym and, judging from her photo ID, she looks like one of those bodybuilder types." Garcia quickly put said photo ID on the electronic board, so that the entire team could see her point. "It seems that, three years later, she was running the gym, only to suddenly hand over ownership to another employee, and join the police. She works as a homicide detective locally, but at a different precinct than the one that was holding Max earlier."

"Anything stand out about her?" JJ asked.

"Not that I can see, no. She's got a great closure rate, though, and her partner, a Detective Dean Boyde, served two terms overseas before joining up with the PD. Say, d'you think Reid helps their cases, when he has the time? I can almost picture them sitting at the dinner table, looking over case files with each other and brainstorming."

Little though she knew it, Garcia had hit the nail exactly on the head. It was almost a tradition for Spencer, Marrissa, and Ian - every night they were all three of them at home, they ate dinner and pulled out their respective case files. Nowadays, more often than not, Abby joined them, acting as a forensic expert. It was all extremely informal, but Marrissa's closure rate would be a lot lower without it.

"What about Ian? What does he do?"

"Uh, he appears to work at a local animal shelter with his girlfriend, Abigail Sciuto, an employee of NCIS. She's a lab technician, but volunteers at the shelter quite a lot. I'd assume that's where the two met. He's been at the same shelter since they moved here, though at first all he was doing was volunteering, before they made him a full-time employee."

"Could you get more 'good citizen' than that? I mean, a cop and an animal shelter employee, we all know how low those types of jobs pay***. And then you've got Reid, who works here, and we all know we could use a pay raise." Prentiss stated.

"They all seem to be really invested in do-gooding; Reid and Marrissa have been known to also volunteer at the shelter on their days off."

"It almost seems like they're _too_ good, like they're overcompensating or something. Garcia, could you find out something about what they were doing before they moved here?"

"Your wish is my command, Chocolate Thunder. Alright, here we are. . . oh. That's strange."

"What?" Hotch demanded.

"Uh, well, Other than birth certificates and other necessary documents, I can't find anything on any of them until Reid, at sixteen, began working as a janitor at a college in Vegas and Ian, same age, started a job at a pizza place. Marrissa, 18, worked at a gym there. No education records, and when I search the 'parent' names on said birth certificates, they're pseudonyms. Not so much as a hospital visit. It's like the three of them just appeared one day and started working."

"Are you saying what I think you're saying, Baby Girl?"

"If what you think I'm saying is that Reid's entire identity is probably forged, at least until he was 16, then yes, I am indeed saying what you think I'm saying."

* * *

><p><strong>*If such a bookstore exists, I am unaware of it. <strong>

****Not sure if this is true, but I don't think it matters in the broad scheme of things.**

*****I'm making another assumption here; not sure at all about pay rates but I'm assuming they'd be low, based on my (limited) knowledge of animal shelters and police departments. All assumptions are based off stuff I've gathered from watching a lot of cop TV and volunteering myself at the local shelter when I was a kid.**

Song of the update: Muse's _Undisclosed Desires_, and Billy Joel's _Captain Jack_.

**PLEASE REVIEW!**

**~Pseu**


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